A familiar air,
Listen to the sounds of a backyard,
tree trimmers, grass cutters, BBQ-ing neighbors,
listen to the children with innocent screams nearby.
He would understand,
their natural allegiance to the land
around them being an open playground,
his own did the same,
on similar days,
a cloudless sky,
the sounds of summer daze.
Yet there is a familiar air,
perhaps we call it the resistance,
we felt it when twelve years old looking out the picture window,
a light rain, yet friends gathering,
pretending to not exist,
though experiencing all of the psychological trauma,
that associates our lives with the living.
He would find himself in that place again,
while the world outside embraced the summer skies,
his mind in a fog,
wondering about time, wondering where,
curious just why he falls into this mental cavern of
it is the time he remembers as a boy,
wondering in the moment,
not knowing beyond the day,
yet now, in the quiet midnight,
the same question remains.